


In which Sherlock is not the White Queen

by fawsley



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 04:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawsley/pseuds/fawsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock makes a mess. John is less than impressed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Sherlock is not the White Queen

John came home to find Sherlock in the kitchen, surrounded by various anonymous bottles of chemicals and poking at something bubbling on the hob.

 _On_ the hob itself, that is. Not on the hob _in a pan_.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked warily.

‘Cleaning.’

John’s cool hand flew up to Sherlock’s equally cool forehead.

‘Strange… You’re not running a temperature.’

‘Why should I be?’

‘Why else should you be doing cleaning?’

Sherlock harrumphed and prodded determinedly at the bubbling something.

‘It’s extremely stubborn. Nothing seems to make it shift.’

John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pulled it away from The Thing.

‘Sherlock! Stop it!’

‘ _You_ stop it! It’s not going to explode.’

John continued to wrestle with Sherlock’s arm, not forgetting to employ a few mild certainly-not-British-Army torture techniques along the way.

‘Poke it if you must, but not with my best vegetable knife.’

Sherlock peered at the implement curiously, taking in the nature of its true purpose.

‘Oh. Is that what it is? Bother. If I’d known…’

‘Known what?’ John enquired grumpily, carefully wiping his beloved knife with the least dirty (certainly not the most clean) tea towel he could lay his hands upon.

In the process he noticed the sink. Which seemed to have been sunk. A large pan full of pinkish scum; various knives and wooden spoons; most of the rest of the tea towels, all sodden with the same pink scum; a selection of strange metal and rubber items that he didn’t want to think about. More of the gelatinous goo had spread and set across a chopping board perched on the work surface. At least they could throw the board away, he supposed. Far cheaper than replacing the work surface. John’s fingers clenched around the knife handle. Sherlock didn’t know how lucky he was. A lesser man would not have simply tucked the knife safely away at the back of the cutlery drawer.

‘What the hell have you been doing?’

‘Cooking of course.’

This time John grabbed Sherlock’s wrist, and watched his own wristwatch intently.

‘Pulse normal… Temperature normal… Sherlock certainly not normal. Are you sure you’re not ill? I mean… _Cooking?!_ What’s got into you?’

‘John for goodness sakes will you just… Ha!’

Sherlock succeeded in peeling away the entire still-fizzing slimy solid slab of whatever-it-was from the hob and held it up in triumph.

‘Interesting. Very resilient. Need to analyse that further. Pass me a clean jar.’

John sighed and did as he was told, only to have Sherlock wander off with his new prize now the focus of all attention. Sherlock wasn’t going to be the one to finish the clearing up, and that sink certainly wasn’t the most inviting prospect after a hard day at the surgery. Not for the first time, John wished they had an automatic dishwasher, and then remembered that they did. It was called John.

‘Not a bloody genius at washing up, are we?’ he yelled.

There was no response expected and none received.

John sighed deeply. He might as well get on with it, but he’d make himself a cuppa first to be going along with. Maybe two cuppas. But none for Sherlock. He opened the top cupboard to retrieve the tea bags and came to a shocked standstill. A neat row of carefully filled, sealed and labelled jars now inhabited the bottom shelf, each one proudly declaring its contents and that it belonged to Doctor John Watson and Doctor John Watson alone.

Living with Sherlock wasn’t so bad after all. In fact, John thought that a glass of wine each might not be a bad idea and to hell with the washing up, it could sit festering in the sink for a while longer with no harm to anyone. And later on, when they felt peckish, he could rustle up that tea alongside some hot buttered toast. With jam.

Jam today, jam tomorrow. And in this case there really was going to be jam every day. In fact, every day for the foreseeable future. John closed the cupboard door slowly and attempted to disengage himself from the handle.

Sometimes, living with Sherlock was simply bloody marvellous.

If sticky. 


End file.
